“There’s no blood on these. I shouldn’t have thought it possible to cut off someone’s head and not get blood on you.”
“For crying out loud!” Bardin said impatiently. He stood up and stretched his big frame. “Do you have to lean so hard on your job? Maybe he had a coat on or something. Does it matter? I’m satisfied; aren’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Conrad said frowning. “It’s all very pat, isn’t it? The whole setup could be a plant, Sam. The gun with Jordan’s initials on it, the smashed car, Jordan’s suicide and now the murder weapon. Everything cut and dried and laid out ready for inspection. It smells a little to me.”
“It smells because you’re over-anxious to earn a living,” Bardin said, lifting his massive shoulders. “Forget it. It convinces me, and it’ll convince the Captain. It would convince you if you didn’t yearn to get Maurer into the chair. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Conrad pulled at his nose thoughtfully.
“Maybe. Well, okay. I guess there’s nothing here for me. Want me to drop you off at headquarters?”
“I’ll call them from here. I’ll want the boys to look this joint over. As soon as I get them working, I’ll go back to Dead End and give the press the story. You’re going home?”
Conrad nodded.
“May as well.”
“Lucky guy. No late work, a nice little home and lots of glamour to keep you warm. How is Mrs. Conrad?”